


From Nassau With Love

by Beelieve



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Light Bondage, M/M, Multi, Spy AU (or is it), and then there was sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 07:37:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16342559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beelieve/pseuds/Beelieve
Summary: blacksailskinkmeme (Prompt 316) — Silverflinthamilton: Thomas f---s Silver with Flint watching, restrained.*   *   *The armrests rattle as Flint tugs yet again to no avail, the nylon ropes looped snugly over the sleeves of his sweater. There’s little chance he’ll be able to break free with strength alone. The rope has some give, his forearms sliding against the smooth timber, but it’s not enough to slip his bindings. That doesn’t stop him from trying, of course.After all, the man watching him seems to be enjoying Flint’s struggle.





	From Nassau With Love

**Author's Note:**

> I guess I write smut now.

* * *

 

 

“Do you like my secret lair, Mr. Flint?”

 _Lair?_ Flint thinks, pulling against the ropes that pin his wrists and ankles to the wooden chair. _Well, that certainly explains a lot._

The armrests rattle as he tugs yet again to no avail, the nylon ropes looped snugly over the sleeves of his sweater. It’s an old chair, though surprisingly sturdy. _Finely_ _fucking_ _crafted_ , his late grandfather would have insisted. Flint doubts the chair’s original maker—nor his granddad, rest his crotchety soul—could have possibly predicted his current plight, though stranger things have happened, he supposes. He’s not exactly one to judge.

Flint pulls once more, just for the show of it.

There’s little chance he’ll be able to break free with strength alone. The rope has some give, his forearms sliding against the smooth timber, but it’s not enough to slip his bindings. That doesn’t stop him from trying, of course.

After all, the man watching him seems to be enjoying Flint’s struggle.

_Bastard._

It’s far too early to acquiesce—one doesn’t actually have to _admit_ defeat if one simply refuses to speak—but he’s already at a disadvantage. Flint sighs, leaning back against the chair. Whatever this evening’s aforementioned plight, he knows one thing for certain: he’s vastly under-dressed, given that Lord Thomas Hamilton himself stands before Flint wearing an impeccably tailored tuxedo.

It should look stuffy, Flint thinks, too formal.

And yet it’s not.

Not on him, anyway.

Every seam is pristine, every line perfectly cut. The posh bow-tie, the glossy dress shoes—it’s all immaculately designed. Even his hair is stupidly perfect, delicately slicked back, not a strand out of place. A set of emerald cufflinks dangle at his sleeves, glinting in the shadowed lighting of the room as he casually lifts a wine glass to his lips.

He looks as if he’s just walked off the floor of a gala.

 _A charity event, actually,_ Hamilton had corrected him earlier, kneeling as he’d tied the last rope around Flint’s ankle. _Innumerable guests beyond that door, roaming my family’s estate like pampered livestock. All so eager to contribute to the betterment of the world. It’s quite beautiful, really. Don’t you think?_ He’d smirked up at him then, a delighted gleam in his eyes.

Now he stares at Flint without a care in the world, admiring his handy work.

Flint has to look away, a shiver of anticipation running up his spine. Hundreds of partygoers beyond the door—hundreds of _witnesses_ , Hamilton had insisted—and yet he’s as good as alone here, beholden to another man’s mercy.

He won’t give Hamilton the satisfaction of seeing him squirm.

_Not yet, anyway._

Flint’s gaze drifts around the room, taking in the supposed lair.

A low blaze crackles in the fireplace, its steady warmth pushing back against the chill of a winter storm brewing behind the glass balcony door. It had been snowing when he’d arrived, Flint’s hair and sweater still the slightest bit damp from the long walk up the drive. There’d been no time to properly dry off when he’d gotten inside—the ambush too quick to do anything but willingly surrender.

The room has no other light source, save the dozen or so candles peppered throughout the space, each flickering in time with the wavering glow of the fireplace. In the center of it all, an oversized bed sits flanked by more candles. It’s curtained off, long strips of opaque red fabric hanging down from the canopy. Although Flint can’t see inside, a burgundy silk comforter spills over the sides of the mattress, its ruffled edges skirting the floor.

He briefly wonders at the cost of something so gaudy, though he doesn’t ask.

A large carafe of wine sits on a side table to his left, and Flint can’t quite tell if he should consider it half-empty or half-full, given the obnoxious size. It’s definitely _well-trafficked_ , to say the least. Hamilton is already on his second refill, and he’s only been monologuing for about eight minutes now, give or take. His eyes drift back to Hamilton, who stands waiting for his response. The taller man has started to subtly fidget, Flint notices, anticipation getting the better of him.

“As evil lairs go,” Flint finally offers, “I must admit I expected yours to be--” he pauses, eying the other man’s lean body, “--bigger.”

Hamilton laughs, sipping at his wine.

“Oh, how I’ve missed your witty tongue, Agent Flint. I thought our paths would never cross again, yet here you sit. Do you remember the fun we had in Nassau, all those years ago?”

“The rope is new,” Flint drawls.

“Ah, yes. Well, one must take precautions, all things considered. You insinuated yourself into my life— _my bed_ —so easily then, Mr. Flint. Or should I call you James McGraw, as I once did? What a fool I was to trust you.” He watches Flint over the rim of his glass. “I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

Flint raises an eyebrow.

“Are you going to kill me, my Lord?”

“Mr. Flint, how could you possibly think such a thing? After I went to such lengths to have you join us this evening, do you really believe I’d simply kill you?”

_Us?_

Hamilton smiles, seeing the question in his eyes.

“Oh, you didn’t know? I have a guest, one who’s been telling me the most interesting stories. I believe you two have met?”

Hamilton turns to pull back the curtain surrounding the bed, and Flint finds himself suddenly short on breath.

_Speaking of vastly underdressed._

John Silver lies atop the lavish comforter, his nude body pale against the garnet fabric. His head is angled in Flint’s direction, though his eyes are closed, his chest rising and falling in even breaths. Both of his arms are curled behind his head, hidden beneath a nest of red throw pillows, while his legs are left open in a careless sprawl, no part of him hidden. Endless planes of golden skin on display, ripe for the taking.

Flint swallows hard, but doesn’t speak.

Hamilton sets his empty wine glass on the nightstand and sits at the edge of the bed, tracing an idle fingertip down the other man’s cheek. John opens his eyes at the touch, his head sluggishly tilting toward the source of the caress. He’s practically purring at the attention, heavy-eyed but alert, and Flint feels his chest tighten at the familiar sound.

“Mr. Silver and I have become fast friends,” Hamilton says.

John sits up, leaning back against the pillows as Hamilton’s finger continues its downward journey. It trails along his neck, tracing the lines of his collarbone before sinking lower, circling his navel. Hamilton brushes his knuckle against John’s lower stomach, just above the dark line of his pubic hair, the strokes steady but descending no farther. John keens at the teasing contact, seemingly oblivious to Flint’s presence.

“If you’ve hurt him,” Flint says, his voice low, “I swear--”

“Oh, Mr. Flint. You don’t understand, do you? How do you think I knew where to find you tonight? Did you honestly believe you’re the only man skilled in the art of betrayal?”

As Hamilton speaks, John turns slightly, his eyes finally meeting Flint’s own. He smiles at Flint, a little chagrined, but the look quickly shifts into something else entirely. Something far darker.

_Fuck._

“Betrayal is such a nasty word,” John offers, taking hold of the front of Hamilton’s jacket and pulling him into a fervent kiss. John leans back after a moment, biting his bottom lip as both men breath heavily, their mouths just inches apart.

Flint’s eyes narrow.

“How could you? After all this time, after everything we’ve been through.”

John smirks. “You’re not the only one with _secrets_ , darling.”

“I trusted you.”

“That was your mistake, not mine.”

“You--"

Thomas intercedes, catching John’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, drawing his gaze. “Perhaps we should show Mr. Flint what _true_ betrayal looks like, hmm?”

John grins at the suggestion, eyes practically glittering in the firelight.

He kisses Hamilton again, just as eager, only now Hamilton surges forward, pulling him up and dragging him onto the center of the bed, his clothed body pinning John down. He moans as Hamilton sucks at his neck, his knees coming up to frame the other man’s waist. As Hamilton’s hands trace leisurely along John’s sides, Flint shifts in his seat, unable to turn away from the sight. He forgets everything in that moment, solely focused on the way their hands and lips move against each other, battling for Flint’s attention.

They spend several minutes like that, Hamilton grinding heatedly against the curves of John’s body as John clutches at the back of his jacket like a lifeline.

When Hamilton finally sits up, he straddles John’s thighs as he loosens his bow tie and pops the top three buttons on his dress shirt. John watches him silently, blue eyes following every movement as he leans up, balancing on his elbows. His chest heaves in quick bursts, still reeling from their kiss. He looks utterly debauched, his short hair a tangle of messy curls.

From his chair, Flint gets a perfect view of John’s cock, heavy and bouncing slightly with every stuttered breath.

Hamilton removes his jacket next, tossing it to the other side of the bed. He glances smugly at Flint as he does it, then turns back to John as he slowly works the suspenders off his shoulders. He doesn’t remove them completely—doesn’t remove much of anything else, in fact; his dress shoes are still on, his trousers—though he does untuck his shirt, pulling the fabric from his waistband as he tugs at the clasp above his zipper.

Even at a distance, Flint can tell he’s not wearing underwear.

_Oh, you villainous bastard._

Hamilton draws himself out of his pants, stroking lazily along his shaft. He scoots backward, and Flint watches every sinuous twist of his body as the blond man bends forward to dip a tongue into the hollow of John’s right hip. John writhes at the contact, falling backward against the comforter as Hamilton’s mouth slides lower, ever closer to his goal. When he starts to nuzzle at the base of John’s cock, John throws his head back, a silent plea catching against his lips. It’s not until Hamilton envelops him, until he has John completely at his mercy, that John lets out a whine. His fingers find their way into Hamilton’s hair, carding roughly through the strands, the immaculate styling lost to greedy, covetous hands.

Flint groans softly, his erection buried beneath far too many layers of clothing.

He’s giving them everything they want, he knows, yet he can’t seem to stop himself.

Doesn’t _want_ to stop himself.

Hamilton eventually draws off, a lick of his lips his only reaction to John’s pleasure. He slinks upward, capturing John’s mouth with his own. They savor the kiss, lingering in the touch, and then Hamilton pulls back. He rolls off John, motioning the other man to sit up as he positions himself flush against John’s back. They’re kneeling now, both turned in Flint’s direction, and Flint wonders if it’s uncomfortable for John, putting so much pressure on his knee like that. He leans back against Hamilton, his balance thrown off without a full leg to steady himself, but if it bothers him in the moment, it certainly doesn’t show

Hamilton ducks his head toward John’s ear, whispering something. When John notices Flint watching the exchange, he winks.

Flint nearly swallows his tongue.

There’s a shuffling of clothes after that—Hamilton dragging his pants lower, Flint suspects—and then John is bending forward onto his elbows. Hamilton is directly behind him, and it’s all Flint can do to keep a choked moan from escaping his lips as he watches him run his hands across John’s ass, spreading him open. Hamilton shifts closer, cock hanging free from his pants. When he’s sure Flint is watching, when he knows he has every ounce of his focus, he slides into John without so much as a warning.

John keens, low in his throat, and Flint realizes he’s already prepared.

_Christ, they’ve been planning this._

_How long have they been waiting?_

John’s bottom lip catches between his teeth as Hamilton slips back out, then quickly in again, his hips snapping sharply forward. He buries himself in John, mouthing at the nape of his neck. His hands fan against John’s sides, his thrusts growing more erratic. He pauses, just long enough to urge John to sit back up again, leaning against him for support. John shudders at the change in position, at the way Hamilton’s cock must shift inside him, and then Hamilton’s hands curve around his waist, keeping him in place.

“ _Ohgod_ ,” John pants, his voice cracking. “More... please... ohgod... please...”

John’s beyond the point of conversation—beyond the point of coherent thought—yet he’s torturing Flint all the same, his body displayed like a trophy, a _sacrifice_. An offering made in the honor of a bound god, utterly powerless to reach the alter before him.

John’s erection bobs in time to Hamilton’s thrusts, his back bowing more and more with each passing second. Hamilton bites at the juncture between John’s neck and shoulder, watching Flint with hooded eyes as his fingers dance along John’s lower torso, tracing circles against his flushed skin. When he finally takes John into his hand, Flint can’t stop the broken noise that escapes his lips.

John only lasts a few seconds after that, his body too sensitive to resist.

He shudders his release, streaks of come landing against his stomach and the ornate comforter beneath them. His body sags and Hamilton grunts, keeping John upright as he presses his forehead to the younger man’s shoulder, composing himself. He pulls out of John carefully, guiding him back down to the bed. John’s gone utterly limp, and Hamilton lays him on his side, running a hand through his curls. When he turns to slide off the bed, Flint can see he’s still erect.

Hamilton stands, pulling up his pants as he tucks himself back inside. The dark fabric is tight around his hips, the seams bulging obscenely now, and Flint tries not to groan as Hamilton drops into his lap, straddling him.

“Poor, Mr. Flint, left here all alone.”

His palms flatten against Flint’s chest, thumbs stroking over his nipples.

 _Of all the days to wear a fucking sweater,_ Flint thinks, the sensation far too muted.

“Did you like our show?”

Flint bites his tongue as Hamilton’s devious fingers roam downward, working at his belt.

“A tad anti-climactic,” Flint murmurs. “Don’t you think? All that work, and you didn’t even--”

He grunts as Hamilton slips a hand past the waistband of his briefs.

“You were saying, Mr. Flint?”

Flint throws his head back, not bothering to hide his reaction.

Hamilton chuckles, drawing Flint out of his pants and then himself. He encircles them both in his palm, the friction almost enough to send Flint off right then and there. They’re wound too tight, their bodies far too ready; neither will last more than a few strokes, though Flint wills himself to try. Hamilton presses his forehead to Flint’s temple as he works, his other hand gripping the back of the chair for support.

“Fiend,” Flint grunts.

“I try,” Hamilton responds.

They come together shortly after, Flint falling over the precipice the moment Hamilton runs a shaky thumb across his slit. Hamilton strokes him through it, then follows quickly behind, his head dropping to Flint’s sweater-clad shoulder as he slumps forward.

Around them the room is quiet, the only sound the crackling fire. There are no party noises beyond the door, no guests in far-off rooms.

_Don’t know where we’d put them, in just a two-bedroom townhouse._

Flint’s still breathing hard, trying to catch his breath as he shifts the weight in his lap. They both whimper in tandem.

“Did you… really buy… a new comforter… just for this?” he pants.

“How dare you,” Hamilton replies, his voice hoarse as he finally sits up. “My wealth is vast, there are vaults filled with--”

“He got it at _Bed Bath &_ _Beyond_ ,” a voice chimes in from across the lair.

“Silence!” Hamilton hisses.

“It was on _sale_ ,” the voice continues.

Flint can’t help the way the corner of his mouth twitches. “Did you use a coupon?”

“I don’t see--"

“It was expired,” the voice helpfully offers.

Hamilton turns to glare over his shoulder, huffing a bit. “Everyone knows they take it anyway!”

Flint starts laughing then, an uncontrollable burst of amusement that starts his chest shaking, and he feels the resigned sag of his husband’s body.

“I hate you both,” Thomas sighs, his face breaking into an endearingly genuine pout.

_And scene._

“You don’t,” James challenges, leaning forward to capture Thomas’s lips.

There’s a long beat of silence, until an exaggerated coughing fit sounds from the direction of the bed.

“Can I have my leg back now?” the voice asks.

James breaks their kiss, blinking up at Thomas in confusion.

“You stole his leg?”

Thomas rolls his eyes. “It’s in the armoire.”

“I—what? Why?”

“It was all part of the _story_. There was supposed to be more time.”

From his prone position, John stretches his arms above his head and yawns.

“What he’s saying is, there was an elaborate storyline about my prosthetic leg having a bomb in it, but you were late coming home from work and he got impatient.”

Flint smiles in John’s direction.

“Did you help him pick out that awful comforter?”

John snorts and sits up, balancing on his elbows. "The set design was all his. I _told_ him it looked like a half-rate brothel at the Moulin Rouge, but what do I know. I’m just the eye candy tonight.”

“Aren’t you that every night?”

John flips him off, then flops dramatically back down onto the bed, already half asleep.

Thomas sighs, ignoring them both as he stares at the sticky mess he’s made of his tux. “Well, it doesn’t matter much now, I suppose. The comforter is ruined anyway.”

“Sorry,” John calls, very much _not_ sorry.

“I don’t know,” James offers. He stares down at his wrists, still tightly bound. “We could try it again. Ruin it a _second_ time. I might have some creative input of my own.”

Thomas stares at James thoughtfully, then grins, his eyes darkening.

“Oh, Mr. Flint. _Do tell_.”

 

 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> For thefunnylady. *throws confetti*
> 
> I’ve posted a link to the story on my writing Tumblr [ if anyone wants to share over there. ](https://beelieve-y.tumblr.com/post/179202293677/from-nassau-with-love/)


End file.
